Laidlaw's new book, "Trout Caviar: Recipes from a Northern Forager," offers refreshing versions on the staples of hunters and anglers. (Courtesy of Minnesota Historical Society Press)

ST. CROIX COUNTY, WIS. - As we slither through prickly ash branches and burdock burrs, watching the dog work and looking for bird tracks in the snow, Brett Laidlaw stops abruptly and stares straight up.

I look up, expecting maybe to see a ruffed grouse perched above. I see nothing but another leafless tree.

Laidlaw sees more.

"See how this bark is peeling?" he says. "I'm wondering if this elm tree might be a good spot for morels this spring. Hmm."

For Laidlaw, a late-season bird hunt or an early-season fishing outing is just one part of a continuum of what we nowadays call foraging.

"When I'm trout fishing, I'm for sure looking to bring home the whole meal," he says. "That's a delight to me, to come back with everything, not just a fish."

Laidlaw, 53, a resident of St. Paul's Macalester-Groveland neighborhood who spends a good deal of his time in a cabin in the woods of western Wisconsin, has written about his culinary-foraging experiments since 2008 on his blog "Trout Caviar."

He has taken some of those recipes and essays, as well as some new ones, and completed a book: "Trout Caviar: Recipes from a Northern Forager."

The title hooked me.

Years ago, I used to make a killing on the Great Lakes steelhead and salmon that would come ashore during the fall spawn.

Sometimes, when landing a large female, out would pour a globular stream of eggs.

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One time, I popped a few in my mouth. They were awesome, almost like the salmon roe that draws a hefty price in sushi restaurants (ikura) and Ukrainian delis (ikra).

But, afraid of bacteria - or just sheepish about eating something other anglers cast aside - I never did it again.

Turns out, all I needed was a bit of salt and 24 hours in the refrigerator, according to Laidlaw and his ridiculously simple yet eye-opening title recipe. (He says the sperm strips of males are "sweet and nutty" when floured and fried.)

It's in that vein that Laidlaw, the author of two novels, inspires us outdoors enthusiasts whose foraging probably is limited to berry picking, to think differently. This can range from trout fishermen who could bring home a salad of watercress they passed along the shore to bird hunters who merely breast their game in the field, a practice he calls "a damn shame" for its discarding of useful parts.

He doesn't hold back from delivering a dash of scolding to his fellow hunters and anglers on certain topics.

Take grouse.

As we're poking around the edge of a frozen swamp on the public land we're hunting, I ask him if most hunters overcook grouse. "Everyone knows that's the danger," he responds, noting the lean birds' flesh easily toughens and dries.

Lily, a wirehaired pointing griffon, sports a snowy goatee after a few hours of grouse hunting on public land in St. Croix County, Wis.
(Pioneer Press: Dave Orrick)

"I'm wondering about temperature," I say. "Even if it's kept moist in cream of mushroom soup."

He chuckles. "Yeah, cream of mushroom soup." He chuckles again. More of a snicker, actually.

"I've got nothing against creamed mushrooms," he explains. Indeed, he has a recipe for that in his book.

But it's the mainstay of grouse hunters - fresh wild bird drowned in canned soup and baked at 350 degrees for a good while - that he calls one of the "greatest sins" of the typical hunter.

"I like to make an occasion out of a wild bird, to really enjoy the flavor," he tells me later. "I don't get that many in a season."

His improvement on grouse-a-la-can-o'-Campbell's is Grouse in Cider Cream, which is more involved but still a one-pot meal. A key distinction, aside from the fresh ingredients, is how he describes the cooking of the bird, which he says should be cooked to medium - and not a moment longer.

"Cook very gently for 30 minutes on a stovetop or in a 275-degree oven, turning and basting often," he writes. (For the recipe, go to blogs.twincities.com/outdoors/)

He applies that level of finesse to many dishes. When cooked delicately, wild rabbit never can be compared with chicken, he insists. And he'll grill - for mere minutes - a diminutive woodcock, the bird he describes as "the kind of exotic delicacy that would be my last dinner."

Lily does her job, flushing one bird during the outing, but Laidlaw is unable to bring it down, and I fail to take us to where I thought it landed.

So I can't tell you how the grouse in cider cream recipe worked out. As one recipe calls for: one to two birds, "as the game gods permit."